


Satisfied

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Series: Of a Feather [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Reincarnation, Slavery mention, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thousand years ago, Solas knew a woman who helped command his armies, lead the revolution, and stole his heart.</p><p>She died.</p><p>In the present, Solas knows a woman who can close rifts, lead the Inquisition, and fight with a sword twice her size.</p><p>She looks exactly like the woman from a thousand years ago.</p><p>In which Solas remembers a first dance and has another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satisfied

It is the age of elves, and Solas is bored.

Being bored is almost a luxury these days, the rebellion keeping them busy every waking hour they can spare. When he isn’t planning out troop movements, he’s working on spies assignments, when he isn’t working on spy assignments, he’s trying to keep their forces stocked with enough food to feed every last soldier. It’s too much work for anyone to handle, a constant torrent of things to do, and before taking on a second in command, Solas was sure he would die by it’s hand rather than the actual forces he was fighting.

The second in command has saved him that fate, at least. But it has left him to the jaws of boredom, and Solas doubts that even Lavellan can save him from that.

“Are you laying on your desk,” Lavellan says as she walks into his room, a stack of parchment in hand. The sight is gratifying until Solas realizes that the items she is carrying are already completed given how they’re covered in her handwriting. He groans, staring back up at his ceiling, and the painted expanse does little to sooth his mind.

“I am attempting to find errors in my murals,” he says, his eyes traveling across a section that is supposed to represent the great war. “But I am afraid I cannot find any. Tell me, Lavellan,” he says, pointing to a section where a battalion marches towards an opposing force. “Do you think this showcases the battle for the plains well, or is it trite?”   

Solas does not have to see Lavellan’s face to know she is staring at him with amusement. “Commander, I can barely draw troop patterns. I doubt I am capable of being your critic.”

“I told you to call me Solas. And I find you are capable of a great many things.” He squints up at another section of the ceiling, a section where a dragon burns a village alive. “You control flame. Do you think the movement of it here is accurate?”

 “It looks accurate enough.” Lavellan takes a step forward and Solas can see her in his line of sight. Her hair is done down in its usual braid and small strands of hair fall loose in front of her ears. “May I ask why you’re inspecting your ceiling?”

Solas sits up, turning towards her. She is a little taller than him when he sits on his desk. “I needed something to do and was considering touching up the ceiling. I’m afraid our productivity has left me more empty handed than I would like.”

“You could paint the other rooms.”

Solas shakes his head. “No. The men do not need to be reminded of wars long gone. Nor do I want to give them another reason to idolize me.” He frowns. “I thought of removing more vallaslin but I have already done that for all the new recruits except for those who wish to be spies. Unless-” His eyes travel to her own vallaslin, white scar like lines that rest under her eyes. The mark of Mythal.

Lavellan’s eyes narrow. “No. I’d like to keep doing spy work, thank you.” She rests the parchment on his desk on top of the other completed stack. She cracks her knuckles after that and turns to him once more. “You have nothing to do? You could talk to the men.”

“The men idolize me,” Solas says. “Someone hanging on your every word is not a conversation; it is a sermon.”

“I suppose; I’ve never had the luxury.” Lavellan presses her lips together before speaking again. “Well, what did you do before the revolution? I assume you had hobbies besides painting.”

Solas can’t help it; he laughs. It takes him a moment to control himself before he can speak again. “Lavellan, I was a war hero along with the others. I’m afraid I was just as busy as I am now. Except I was forced into political nonsense instead of this revolution.” He leans forward, a smirk on his lips. “Do you know how hard it is to turn down dances from those looking only for power? You have to get creative with your answers.”

“I wouldn’t know. I never danced,” Lavellan says it like it is a fact instead of a tragedy, and Solas finds himself once again painfully reminded of the difference in their lives before they ended up here. Her vallaslin look more scar like than ever.

“Never danced?” He tries to keep his voice away from pity. Lavellan hates pity, hates being treated as something fragile due to her background and circumstances. It is something Solas has taken long to understand.

“Not in the way you’re thinking off,” Lavellan says. “There were occasional bouts for weddings, but we rarely had enough time for a dance outside of one for the couple. And even then, few wanted to dance with a mage.” She snaps her fingers together and a flame dances above in the air before vanishing. “Not that it mattered; I often spent the time he was away sneaking into the library to read spell books. Had I stayed for a dance I would likely still be there as Elgar’nan’s pet.” She says the name of the mage with an anger that is as sharp as her flame. Solas hopes the man can feel its burn wherever he is.

He looks at her for a second, taking in the former slave who made herself a spy, a soldier and then a general. A woman who stole books, and taught herself to read from hiding in the shadows. A woman who is almost as talented as those who wished to command her, a woman who will not bend to anyone but her own will.

She deserves a brighter future. Solas cannot give her that just yet. But in the meantime, he can give her something else.

With that thought, Solas gets off his desk. Bows low. Holds out one hand. “Ellana Lavellan,” he says, looking up to relish the look of surprise on her face. “Will you grant me this dance?”

Lavellan looks at him like he asked her to fight the enemy with nothing but a stick. A full minute passes before she speaks. “You’re serious.”

“Quite.”

“The men will talk.”

“Some gossip will be good for them.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

There is a flush to her cheeks. For once, she looks like the young woman she is supposed to be, not the battle worn warrior. It is a welcome sight.

“I don’t know how to dance.”

Solas stands up and grabs her hand, light enough that she can pull away if she wants to. Given how she grips his hand tight, he doubts he made the wrong choice. He takes one step forward, enough to be close but not enough to invade her personal space.

“I’ll teach you,” he says, lifting his other hand so it hovers just above her shoulder. He doesn’t want her to feel like she can’t say no. This gesture is her choice to accept. “Once again, may I have this dance, Ellana Lavellan?”

The soft smile that appears on Lavellan’s face tells him her answer before she speaks. “Yes, Commander.”

Solas laughs. “I told you, call me Solas.” He rests his hand on Lavellan’s shoulder. Lavellan chuckles.

“Alright, Commander Solas.”

Their combined laughter leads them into the beginnings of what will become an hour long dance lesson.

* * *

 

It is the age of man and Lavellan has spent the night rejecting more invitations to dance then she would like to count.

Solas watches as she flits through the halls like a ghost, trying her best to both be present and not be seen. Despite her elvish heritage, the nobles of the Winter Palace are desperate to get a piece of the woman who saved the night, pointy ears or not. Solas cannot blame them; Lavellan has just beaten three of the best players in the game in less than a few hours. To the nobles, such a feat is as impressive as walking out of the Fade. She might as well be a god.

Solas knows what it is like to be equal to the status of Godhood. He will not let Lavallen suffer the same loneliness that once plagued him.

She’s on the balcony when he finds her, wearing the suit Josephine forced them all into. It doesn’t suit her, it suits no one, but she is beautiful nonetheless under the candlelight. The witch she was talking to eyes him as she passes, her gaze lingering on his hat and Solas resists the urge to say something cutting.

He walks past her and towards Lavellan. She’s leaning on the balcony, her gaze looking below at the expanse of the winter palace. Her sash is rumpled from the wind. “I’m not surprised to find you out here,” he says as he steps to stand next to her, leaning forward on the railing as well. “Thoughts?”

Lavellan sighs. She looks exhausted, worn, and for a second, Solas worries tonight’s comments at her expense have taken their toll. But when she breaths in deep, he recognizes what it truly is; the weight of a decision bearing down on her back.

“It’s been a very long day,” she says, her eyes clouded with what must be a thousand thoughts of second guessing.

“For everyone, I imagine,” he says. “It’s nearly over now. Cullen’s giving the men marching orders as we speak.” That takes away some of the dread in her expression. Her eyes lighten just a little and Solas finds himself transported back to a world where he was the one forced to make every choice and she the one to keep him grounded. A thousand moments of her at his side come back to him, each painful and sweet. One, however, sticks out from the rest.

_I wouldn’t know. I never danced._

“Come. Before the band stops playing. Dance with me.” Solas takes a step back like he did so many years ago, bowing low and outstretching his hand. Lavellan stares at him for a moment, her eyes wide and for a second, he thinks she’ll have objections like the woman he remembers. But then a small smile touches her lips, just enough to reach her eyes.

“I’d love to.”

Rissa Lavellan is not Ellana Lavellan. She is a woman of a different era, a different time, a different background. If anything, she is an echo of the woman he once knew, a close copy but not quite the same. Usually, this fact leaves Solas rather bitter for the Lavellan he lost.

But for the moment, he is grateful. If only because this means that this Lavellan has once before had the chance to dance.


End file.
